“No.”
“He admitted that he had no guarantees from the King to create peers in the event that the Lords reject a Parliament Bill.”
“But that means …”
“It means, my dear, that there will have to be a second election, probably this summer. We would not be able to marry with his sanction before the autumn at least.”
Elizabeth sank down dejectedly in a chair.
“Oh Edwin, we have waited so long.”
I went to her side. “I know, I know. That is why I have come here this morning, to decide with you whether we should wait any longer.”
She turned her dark eyes upon me, mirroring in their anguish the longing I also felt. “You know what I want to do – marry you. But we cannot throw your career away for that.”
“We can and we will if the two aims are incompatible.”
“But they are not – yet.”
“Perhaps not. But how long can we wait? Even coming here this morning, I took a risk. Must I take risks to be with you?”
“I don’t want you to, but let us think for a moment. Perhaps the Lords will pass the bill.”
“We can’t hope for that.”
“Let’s at least wait to see if they do, then decide what to do.”
Elizabeth was right, as I knew, and though I protested feebly a little longer, we followed her course. It was strange that she, the young lady, should commend patience to the older man, but her eye for the right action did not desert her. We resolved to wait, a little longer, agreeing however that any further delay would be intolerable. I was prepared, that day, to toss away the bauble of my career for the shimmer of a loving future with Elizabeth, but she held me back, and later I thanked her for that. Looking back now, I wish I had not been so persuaded. We could not then know that the road of reason on which we had embarked was ultimately to lead us apart.
I returned, still seething inwardly, to my office and all the appanages of ministerial rank which sat so ill with the inclination of my will. It was a difficult task to wait again upon events so much beyond my control, but I sought to do so, setting my sights on distant fulfilment. And Elizabeth and I still snatched meetings, by prearranged chance, and filled our letters to each other with private hope.
In that way the month of March elapsed and April wore on. By then, the Irish had been won over by the ultimate promise of Home Rule and the terms of the Parliament Bill agreed by the Cabinet. The original occasion of the crisis, Lloyd George’s 1909 Budget, was meekly passed by the Lords on April 28th, in the knowledge that the real battle was yet to be fought.
That evening, most of we ministers gathered at 11 Downing Street for dinner with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, to celebrate the laggardly passage of his Budget. It was a cheery, even exuberant, affair and I contrived to affect the prevailing mood, without much success. Asquith was in good heart, though weary in appearance, while Lloyd George and Churchill contemplated in the euphoria of alcohol and cigars a triumphant summer election, followed by a resounding victory over the Lords. I strove to share their confidence and, in a quiet moment, Asquith said to me, “They’re right, Edwin. By the autumn, we should be in the clear.” I only wanted to believe him and, that night, in that able, talented company, I did so.
Even I could not blame Asquith for the next stroke of fate to tell against me. Suddenly, on May 6th, King Edward died. During the ten days of mourning that followed, we all soberly realised that his guarantee to create peers had gone with him and, I personally realised, the prospect of an autumn wedding. I did not feel able to bear any further delay, nor did I believe I could expect Elizabeth to. Yet our rightful response was as hard to devise as before.
The day after the King’s funeral, a lengthy, ceremonial event in which I was obliged to play my part, I happened to arrive outside the tropical plant house at Kew Gardens at noon, just as Elizabeth did. We strolled amongst the exotic fronds in apparently idle discourse that was, in truth, an anxious appraisal of our circumstances.
“It is chastening to realise,” I said, “that somebody as seemingly powerful as I should be so at the mercy of others. Now, my dear Elizabeth, we must wait upon the King.”
“I would rather wait upon you, Edwin.”
“And I on you. But the new King is an unknown quantity. We do not yet know his mind.”
“On what subject?”
“On the creation of new peers. Should he be more amenable than his father, he may consent without another election.”
“That would be marvellous.”
“Indeed it would, disposing swiftly of any objections to our marriage. The problem is that he is not bound by his father’s guarantees and may take a harder line. We can only wait upon his word.”
There, again, was the message of which we had both sickened, the message of waiting that had worn us down. Yet still we had the light tread of hopeful young lovers as we left the humidity of the plant house and strolled across the grass, our hands in secret clasp.
On May 27th, we risked dinner at The Baron to mark the anniversary of our first meeting. Strangely, that distant event seemed welcomely simple by comparison with the toils of political complexity in which we now found ourselves. And still we had to wait.
It was, in truth, not long before King George showed his hand. In early June, he explored with the leaders of both major parties the possibility of agreeing some compromise legislation that would avert an open clash with the Lords. Of this I knew nothing until a Cabinet meeting on June 6th. It became apparent, from the Prime Minister’s peroration, that the King had indeed thrown over his father’s guarantees to create peers. What he desired was resolution without conflict. To this end, he wanted the party leaders to meet and devise a decent settlement. Asquith favoured the idea as, to my surprise, did Lloyd George. Seeing an end to my personal suspense receding with an election into the distance, I protested that we should not become embroiled in interminable negotiation and looked to Churchill, hitherto a voluble exponent of dissolving and having done, for support. But he said nothing, significant though his exchange of glances with Lloyd George seemed. The others paraded behind Asquith’s assertion of loyalty to the Crown and mine was a lone voice.
Nevertheless, I was asked by Asquith to stay behind after the meeting, along with Lloyd George and the Marquess of Crewe (Leader of the House of Lords). I was thus obliged to simmer beneath the Prime Minister’s blandishments as to my and their suitability to constitute the four Liberal representatives to the Constitutional Conference. There were to be four Conservative representatives and one each of the Labour and Irish Nationalist parties.
The first meeting took place at 10 Downing Street on June 16th, a scene-setting event at which Asquith and Balfour exchanged high-sounding nothings, the Conservative peers uttered dire threats and the Labour and Irish delegates made their shrill presence felt. At a prearranged meeting in Hyde Park the following Sunday, I was unable to express more optimism to Elizabeth than that I would resist a little longer before we took matters into our own hands.
The Conference re-convened on June 20th. There was a lengthy discussion of the merits and demerits of joint sittings, quinquennial parliaments and exemptions from veto of special categories of legislation, but with no signs of movement from either side on any issue. Ten grave figures sat round a table expending more air than effort and I grew more depressed and silent with each well-trod avenue that we fruitlessly explored. A pyrotechnical attack on the Conservative peers by the Irish representative served to terminate proceedings in the late afternoon.
As if taking pity on my woebegone expression as I left, Lloyd George caught my eye and invited me into number 11 for a private discussion. At tea time, he served whisky, of which I felt in need and we both expressed exasperation with the Conference.
“You may be sure,” he said, “that this will go on for months.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to stick that.” He was not to know that my intolerance was rather more than the impatience of youth
.
“You should do, Edwin. There might be something in it for you.”
“For all of us, I hope.”
“Naturally, but I meant that we, you and I, stand to profit personally from the proceedings.” My ears pricked up – what Celtic ploy was this?
“I don’t see how.”
“Then consider, Edwin, what is the implication behind the King’s action in setting up this conference?”
“That he wishes to avoid open conflict between the two Houses of Parliament.”
“But in what way?”
“By bringing all sides together to reach an agreement.”
“Exactly. All sides together spell coalition.”
“There’s been no mention of that.”
“No, but there will be, mark my words. It’s the only way. How, otherwise, can the Tories consent to Liberal legislation? A share in the government would have to be their reward.” There was something in what he said and it explained his sudden conversion to negotiation.
“Is that why you supported this Conference?”
He wavered for a moment. “It was certainly in my mind.”
“But where is the profit for you and me?” Now I was playing him at his own game.
“Isn’t that obvious? A coalition could not function under the existing premiership. The Tories would never wear it. No, it would be an opportunity for bright young men of all parties, free of party dogma, to come together for the good of the country.”
“And the good of themselves?”
“Why not? Who are we to refuse a golden opportunity if history offers us one? I’ve already sounded out Balfour.”
“You’ve done what?”
“I’ve had an informal word with Balfour and he likes the idea. We would drop some reforms for the sake of others that would not be the victims of party conflict.”
“Such as?”
“Such as votes for women – some women at any rate – which we’ve discussed before. Such as a federal solution to the Irish problem. Great gains which might be feathers in our caps.”
A vision came unbidden to my mind, as mayhap it had to Lloyd George’s. It was of that magical Welsh orator at the head (or near it) of a ministry of all the talents, Asquith’s rein on his ambitions at last shrugged off, turning millstones to milestones at his gifted touch, hailed as a hero by Suffragettes, Irish Nationalists and any number of other discontented groups, able to persuade skilled, clear-thinking colleagues of the justice of whatever cause he might advance. Here was not merely an aspirant to political primacy seeking my support but a man hungry for power who saw in me a potential co-conspirator.
“It won’t wash, L.G. Votes for a few propertied women would be worse than votes for none. As for a federal Ireland you might convince Balfour of that, but he could never carry his party with him. And if you did oust Asquith, you would break our own party in the process.”
He leant forward, eyes twinkling beneath hooded brows. “Would that matter?”
The engaging iconoclast had at last gone too far. “I happen to think so,” I said. “I care about the Liberal party and have no wish to see it founder on the rocks of a pointless coalition.”
“Not so pointless, Edwin.”
“The only point, so far as I can see, is to further your career.”
“And yours.”
“Perhaps. But neither is worth so much double-dealing.”
Lloyd George snorted with derision and strode to the window. “You’ll achieve nothing without getting your hands dirty.”
“Then nothing may be preferable.”
He turned. “You disappoint me, you really do.”
I rose from my seat. There was only one thing to say.
“As a matter of fact, L.G., so do you.” Whether or not I disappointed him, he had certainly misjudged me, and his annoyance was as much with giving himself away to somebody who might now oppose him as with the failure of his argument.
I made to leave but Lloyd George intercepted me at the door. “Stay a moment, Edwin,” he said with a silken smile. “We should not fall out over a little idle theorizing.”
“Not so idle, if I’m any judge.”
His tone changed to one of menace. “If you are not with us, you are against us.”
“All you have to do is not to involve me.”
With that, I left. But Lloyd George’s use of the collective pronoun had not been lost on me and we both knew that he had already involved me more than was wise. I walked away along Downing Street sadder than I was angry that we responsible men of government were now falling to exploit for our own profit that crisis of the constitution about which we claimed to feel so deeply. There was, for all that, a personal strand to my sadness – the realization that, in seeking to behave in a way that would enable me to continue with my career, I had put at risk that which I cherished above everything: my love for Elizabeth. It was time, I felt, to accord that the priority it deserved.
What would, what did, my darling Elizabeth have to say on the matter? I drove openly to Putney the following afternoon and found her and Mercy taking tea in the garden. Mercy soon found some roses to prune and left us to talk. I shall ever recall Elizabeth’s serene and loving company that sultry afternoon on the Longest Day of 1910. She reclined in her chair beneath a parasol, a golden gaze above a cream dress, and sought to lead me to the right answer. She had a gift of calmness before adversity that was part of her beauty.
“I am poorly placed to advise you, Edwin,” she said. “But is it not your duty to inform Mr. Asquith of his Chancellor’s intentions?”
“So I think, my dear. But I have no wish to sow discord. Besides, there was something to commend what Lloyd George said.”
“For him only. I feel sure you are right there.”
“Others may benefit. Perhaps even your very own WSPU.”
“Not by this latest private members’ bill. There’s nothing democratic about enfranchising a few middle-aged, property-owning women who vote Conservative.”
“With the possible exception of Aunt Mercy?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Granted.”
“You are right, though. It’s what I said to L.G. But for him it’s become a bargaining counter in his deal with Balfour. That’s what appals me – that none of these issues seems to matter to him except as a means to an end, that end being Lloyd George for Prime Minister.”
“Edwin, I rejoice that it appals you. I fear, however, that others may not see things the same way – others in the WSPU, for instance.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Remember Julia Lambourne? You met her here once.”
“I think I do.”
“Well, she told me recently that Christabel Pankhurst secretly supports this bill – that’s why the truce she called for the election’s been extended. I put more faith now in what Sylvia Pankhurst thinks, but Christabel still determines policy. And what you’ve now said fits what I’ve recently heard.”
“Which is?”
“According to Julia, Christabel has received intimations from an unnamed minister that, if we accept this bill as a stopgap measure and cause no further trouble, we will receive all we ask at some suitable future date. What if …”
“That minister were Lloyd George?”
“I think it must be.”
“But L.G. can’t make promises like that.”
“He can if he doesn’t mean them to be kept. From what you say, he’s quite capable of deceiving Christabel in order to appear as the pacifier of the Suffragettes.”
“That’s true. Elizabeth, I’ve decided what to do. I shall see the Prime Minister and tell him what’s happening to his precious conference. In return for my honesty, let him honour his promise to sanction our marriage.”
“I pray you succeed.”
“If not, we will marry anyway and damn the consequences – if you will still have me.”
Elizabeth rose lightly from her chair and moved across to kiss me. “Of course I will still have you, Edw
in. And you me, I hope.”
“Oh yes, my darling, you may be sure of that.”
Suddenly, her expression became grave as she knelt beside me. “There may be one other thing to worry about.”
“What might that be?”
“I fear that, for all our discretion, some people in the movement know about us, or think they know – perhaps even Christabel herself.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Well, Julia is a darling, but she talks too freely. I’m sure she must have let slip seeing you here, because I’ve been asked lots of awkward questions recently.”
“Fear not. One way or the other, we will soon have nothing to hide.” And certain it seemed that it would be so, as Elizabeth knelt before me on the lawn beneath the cherry blossoms and lent me her strength and love. But little I knew that the worst we feared was better than what was, in truth, to come.
The following morning, I telephoned Asquith’s secretary from my office and arranged to see the Prime Minister in his room at the House of Commons, at five o’clock that afternoon. I was there in time to sit in on a low-key debate in the Chamber before walking smartly up to Asquith’s room even as Big Ben began to strike the hour.
The Prime Minister looked up wearily from his desk as I entered, his blank expression unmoving. “What can I do for you, Edwin?” His tone would have seemed tart had it not been so tired.
“It concerns the Conference, Prime Minister.”
“Please sit down.” I did so. “I daresay it is not going as well – or as quickly – as you had hoped. Alas, it cannot be helped.”
“You will know from what I said in Cabinet that I have no faith in the Conference as a solution to our problems.”
“I also know why it is a blow to your particular ambitions, Edwin. But they can form no part of what the government judges to be best.”
“I accept that, of course, though you have more than once implied the reverse.” I had not intended to sound a carping note and instantly regretted it, but Asquith scarcely seemed to notice, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point in the middle distance.
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